Page 3 of Passion in Bloom

Fleetingly, I dreamed of just going. Of running again, of extracting myself from this mess. To go and be gone, far, far from here where David couldn’t see me. Where I wouldn’t see him and witness the ugly snarls of anger.

The small peace I’d found here was shattered. Here, in my hometown where I’d never been welcome, I lost the hints of solace and serenity I’d lacked in Chicago.

“Let’s go, Heather!” No matter how many times David reached out for me, Roarke remained there to block him. He tired of trying to get around my neighbor, my ally, and it appeared that he wanted to count on me to move toward him. Expecting me to be obedient and come to him, as though the bonds he’d held over my head were still intact.

Like I was the meek puppet he ordered to do as he bade.

Again.

And again.

I shivered, wracked with a physical reaction to the supreme threat posed here. Chills gripped me. A clammy sweat coated my skin, and the results of being pinned by David’s furious glare triggered too many recollections I wasn’t strong enough to resist.

PTSD didn’t recede. I was stuck, trapped in my unmoving body, too tense to think, to rationalize, to speak up.

“Tell him, Heather,” Roarke urged. “Tell this fucker to leave.”

I wished I could. I wanted nothing more than to have David be gone. I’d never wanted to suffer the sight of him again. To have to hear the slimy demand in his voice again.

“Tell this asshole to fuck off,” Roarke said.

I can’t.

I swallowed, paralyzed in panic and fear, on the cusp of drowning under the swarm of ugly memories.

I can’t. I’m not strong enough to overcome this. I can’t.

I couldn’t do anything.

Tears stung in my eyes as I wished Roarke could understand without me telling him.

I can’t...

And I couldn’t find the strength to know, deep down, that he could save me, that he’d be the hero I didn’t want to want.

Because I’m not his to save. His help is not mine to expect.

That would just be repeating the cycle of debt all over again.